


Red

by Enochianess



Series: Letting You Let Go [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Identity Issues, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7431085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky never goes into cryo, but as time goes by, he begins to realise that the soldier never left, and he is not really Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different to how I normally write, so let me know what you think of it!
> 
> I'd advise you to listen to Glass Heart Hymn by Paper Route while you read this.

Bucky Barnes died in 1943, but Steve Rogers does not understand this. Steve Rogers does not understand that he’s supposed to mourn.

In your head, you don’t go by any name. It is only recently that you have thought of yourself as _me_ rather than _the asset,_ or _it._

You, the man of no substance, yet sharp and cut like a diamond, spend your day staring into space. You enjoy the ticking of time, the only steady and reliable thing you can remember having. You listen to Steve Rogers when he talks, let the words sink in, but nothing really processes unless you are given an order. You were not made to care, only to obey.

 

You live with Steve Rogers in an old brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. He tells you it's not too far away from where you used to live, but the apartment is much bigger, much lighter. You've pulled the mattress off your bed; you feel more comfortable on the floor. You never had a bed when you were the asset. Even the mattress feels like a luxury, something uncomfortable and unwanted, but used all the same. You sit in the dark for hours with nowhere to go, and listen to the coming and going of Steve Rogers. He periodically knocks on the door and opens it, checks to see if you want anything or if you're comfortable. Sometimes you follow him out and sit in the living room beside him. You let your shoulders and elbows brush, but your edges are too sharp and you cut into Steve Rogers. Your thighs press against his and it is like a blow, his skin falls apart and sifts through his clothing like sand. You cut and cut into Bucky Barnes' best friend, but he's too pleased to notice, too relieved you're with him to feel the pain you've already begun to inflict upon him.

You stare out the window while Steve Rogers stares at the television screen. You watch as the light filters through, dances on the floor, flittering in and out, floating up and down, flirting with the leaves outside the glass panes and laying bare on the wooden floor. You have nowhere to go, nowhere that doesn't bring you right back to where you are now. Steve Rogers will always find you. Steve Rogers will always bring you home. 

You stand in the middle of the empty apartment and spin where you stand, your eyes traversing the space, clocking the windows and doors. It feels stifling, oppressive. You imagine yourself in the centre of a field, a corn maze, lost and unable to escape. You walk around and around but everything looks the same. There is no entry, no exit. There is only here. There is no route that doesn't bring you back here. The apartment is all that is. It has become the shape, the size, the time, of your small existence. You are no prisoner, not in this new world, but you feel like a trapped animal all the same. You miss the blood, the taste of the copper in your mouth, the colour of it dripping down your hands. You tell none of this to Steve Rogers. You listen when he talks. You smile when he laughs. You are for all intents and purposes Bucky Barnes, except there is a gaping, ice cold hole in your chest, and a high-pitched shrieking in your head. 

 

Memories come like dark shadows in the night. You watch as they come and go, your teeth grinding, cracking under the force, your mind fracturing. The pieces, shards, of what your remember slice into your insides, tear you apart and let the remains furl onto the muddy ground. The images, sounds, smells— they weigh heavy. So heavy that you drop to your knees, the boulder on your back making your spine arch and snap beneath the unbearable burden, the mass, the pressure. The rain crashes down around you and the large drops make your skin slicker as the whip comes down and down again, your skin splitting at the seams, peeling open and tearing your muscles. Your pale flesh darkens with your blood, but you do not notice. You are on your knees and the gravel hurts, but you do not notice. Your eyes are dry, pale and flat, and you stare up at Steve Rogers with that red liquid trickling from your mouth, and you beg for a forgiveness you do not want and do not deserve. You do this for Bucky Barnes, give him his redemption. Steve Rogers cries, but still he does not mourn.

 

They ask you to join them on a mission, but they do not like you on the battlefield. You move in a blood red fury. Your eyes are dead, cold, but it is in the way you move, the way you shift forward like a lion through the grass, ready to pounce, ready to kill.

You are commanded to bring the hostage in alive, but you strangle him in between your thighs and then shoot him between the eyes for good measure. The others are nowhere to be seen, too slow. You are a shadow, a ghost, you can move like water and you can kill like a viper. They are too slow and by the time they make it into the flooded basement, the target is face down in the water and you are already gone.

 

Ten words is all it takes to make you into a monster. But not anymore. Now Steve Rogers holds the book to your destruction, keeps it safe, keeps you safe. You grasp hold of your control and you chew on it, swallow it whole and let it dissolve into your bloodstream and through the skin. Sometimes you wish he'd chant those words to you. Now you have to listen when they scream. Now you have to feel as their blood sprays against your face. You close your eyes and swallow thickly, your hands shake and your knees buckle beneath you. You are still not Bucky Barnes. You remind yourself of this as you dip the tip of your knife into an agent's throat. No, Bucky Barnes would accept their surrender. But not you. Never you.

 

You accidentally hurt Steve Rogers' friend Clint. He comes to the apartment when Steve Rogers is not there and you strike. You bite and claw, cut and scrape, until the hero whispers Bucky Barnes' name, and then you stop, dead, a chill running down your spine. You were not supposed to do that. Bucky Barnes would be mad. Steve Rogers  _will_ be mad. You back away quickly, open the window, and leap.

 

Steve Rogers looks at you, but not in the same way as he did a few months ago. The brightness has left his eyes and now he looks spiteful, betrayed. You are not who you are supposed to be. You have taken Bucky Barnes away from him and swallowed him whole. You played with him, acted like him and like a black hole you absorbed all that Bucky Barnes once was, pressed him onwards and outwards, and then allowed it all to collapse, allowed Bucky Barnes to sink into the darkest recesses of who you are now.

Steve Rogers does not ask you to leave, but he navigates his way around you, as if he’s trying to keep away from the sharp edges of your soul, to save himself from the fall. The tense atmosphere in the apartment makes even you feel anxious, your hairs prickling, your skin itching. He has walked away from you, and you are glad. He is saving himself. He has some self-preservation after all.

 

You are afraid. You no longer sleep. You no longer eat. You quiver with the urge to kill, the memories resurfacing turning you into that thing you once were. You are empty and when you look at Steve Rogers, he is empty too. All that is Bucky Barnes is Steve Rogers, he is where he begins and ends, but you are not him, and you have no beginning or ending.

 

You stand opposite Steve Rogers at the site of your recent mission, the one you were never supposed to join them on, and you are shaking. It is time, you think. It is time.

“Come on, Stevie. It’s gotta be you.”

Steve Rogers is trying to gulp in air between huge, heart-wrenching sobs. His face is red and puffy and covered in snot.

He lifts his arm, puts his finger on the trigger, and shoots.

You lay there, on your back where you land, and you laugh, you laugh until it turns into a gurgle and then suddenly you're choking. You reach your arms out desperately and then, by some miracle, he takes your hands. He takes your hands and he squeezes. The bullet didn't hit, but the blood rises anyway. You panic, but Steve Rogers is there, Steve Rogers will help.

 

You wake with your wrists tied behind your back. You're in an old warehouse that smells like urine, and you can hear the rats scurrying about on the floor above. Steve Rogers is staring at you, his arms folded across his chest.

"You're not Bucky." He states. There is no question to his tone. He is sturdy, sure in his words.

"No."

"Who are you?"

"I don't know."

Steve Rogers nods. "Are you gonna hurt anyone?"

"Possibly. I want to."

"Do you want to hurt me?"

"No. You're Steve Rogers. Bucky Barnes' best friend."

Steve Rogers smiles, but it is not happy. It is so very sad. His eyes are watery and— _Now,_ Bucky thinks... Now, Steve Rogers mourns.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://enochianess.tumblr.com) and [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCASBQ68lbb2CWPhhZuRmC_A)
> 
> If you liked it, please leave kudos or comments!


End file.
